Snowstorm Magic
by HLJ137
Summary: Joan and Sherlock are stuck at the brownstone during a snowstorm and blackout. They have only candles for light, only the fire and each other for warmth. One-shot of pure Joanlock fluff :)


_A/N: This fic was requested/inspired by E, thanks so much for the idea and the reviews! Hopefully this is what you're looking for :) if anyone else has any requests or prompts, please drop them in reviews or send me a PM! Hope you all enjoy this bit of fluff!_

 _xx_

Joan stood by the window, gazing out into the white abyss. It was hard not to be mesmerized by the snow floating just outside the glass, lit up by the candle sitting in the windowsill. The snowstorm had knocked out power through most of the city a few hours ago, so Joan and Sherlock had dug out a box of candles from the basement and lit them, placing them strategically around the brownstone to light it as best they could. Still, as the sun went down and the streetlights remained out, Joan could only see a few inches into the blinding snow beyond the window. The rest of the world was invisible.

Earlier, they'd spent a good hour cleaning out the fireplace. They'd had to remove Sherlock's hidden treasures from it to get it into working order so they could heat the room. They'd closed the doors to the main room and Joan had hung blankets up to around the door frames to keep the heat in. Still, it wasn't very warm.

After spending about an hour squinting at case files and attempting to get some work done in the low candle light, Sherlock had given up and gone to the basement in search of more candles to light the room. That's when Joan had made her way to the window to admire the beauty of the snowstorm. She loved the snow; it always brought her fond memories of holidays spent cuddled inside with her family, a warm mug of cocoa in hand.

After awhile, Sherlock still hadn't returned from the basement, so Joan impulsively decided to go up to the roof to enjoy the snow firsthand. She grabbed her thickest coat and her boots and headed up. When she reached the roof, Joan propped the door open and walked outside a bit, kicking around the snow as she went. When she got to the edge, she rested her arms on the wall and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of the snow as it melted on her face.

Joan wasn't sure how long she'd been standing there when she heard a voice behind her. She couldn't make out the words as they were muffled by the snow, but she recognized the voice as Sherlock's. Turning around, she realized the falling snow had gotten so thick that she could hardly see him standing in the doorway. He was still calling to her, but she still couldn't make out his words. All she could see were multiple tiny pricks of light flickering in front of him. Intrigued, she trudged through the almost knee-deep snow back to the door.

She laughed when she found Sherlock in the doorway holding a tray full of tiny tealight candles. Seeing her laugh, Sherlock shrugged. When Joan was within earshot, Sherlock muttered, "these were the only other candles I managed to find. They are admittedly not the best source of light or warmth, but I suppose they're better than nothing.

Joan nodded, still grinning. She stopped a few feet away from where he stood in the door, looking around and enjoying the snow once again.

When Sherlock noticed that she wasn't going to come inside and close the door, he said, "you'd better come inside before you freeze, Watson," and turned around to head down the stairs, leaving Joan little choice but to follow. Rolling her eyes, Joan came inside and shut the door with a thud.

When she got back downstairs, Joan hung up her wet coat and made her way back into the only room with any heat. She found Sherlock had already occupied the spot in front of the fireplace. He was sitting far too close to it, leaving hardly any room for her to enjoy its warmth too. With a sigh, she returned to her spot by the window, shivering a bit from the cold air seeping in around the window pane.

Seeing her shiver, Sherlock frowned. "Watson," he called, "what are you doing?" She turned to look at him questioningly, saying nothing. He continued, "you've just been outside, no doubt freezing, and now you've chosen to stand in the coldest spot in the room."

Joan shrugged, turning back toward the window. "I love the snow," she said wistfully. "It's beautiful, magical and emotional..." When she heard him snort softly behind her, she added, "not that you'd appreciate that."

Sherlock, faking being stung, said, "I appreciate warmth, Watson," he retorted. "And at the moment, the only place that can be found is right here."

"Suit yourself," Joan replied, "but you're missing out."

While she continued to observe the snow, Sherlock observed her. She seemed so moved by the sight outside the window, despite her obvious physical discomfort. Clearly she valued the sight of the snow more than she valued her own physical comfort, a choice that intrigued Sherlock. Eventually, Sherlock's natural curiosity won out over his desire for the heat of the fireplace, so he decided to join Watson at the window to see if he could figure out what it was about the blizzard that had so captured her interest.

When Sherlock walked up beside her, Joan glanced up at him quizzically. Sherlock, feigning nonchalance, looked out the window himself. After a pause, he asked idly, "tell me, what is it that you find so beautiful about the snow, Watson?"

Joan sighed, her gaze returning to the window too. "I don't know," she murmured. "I like the way it falls so slowly and silently, how it mutes everything and makes the world seem so small." Another wistful sigh made Sherlock look back at her, studying her face as she added, "I guess it just reminds me of good times gone by..." she trailed off, at a loss for how to explain the feelings the snow evoked in her. For his part, Sherlock was captured by the wistful, happy, nostalgic look in her eyes. She was at peace here in this freezing blizzard. The weather which caused most people to curse it apparently made her happy, and Sherlock found himself smiling at the mystery that was his partner.

A sudden gust of wind interrupted their separate reveries, banging against the glass and bringing more chill through the windowsill. Joan involuntarily shivered again. Sherlock moved back to the fireplace, but Joan remained where she was. He shook his head at her stubborn refusal to move away from the window. "Watson, come on," he called. She turned around again and he beckoned for her to join him. "You're going to fall ill if you remain there any longer." Joan still didn't move, so he beckoned again. "Come sit by the fire," he said, "at least for a bit."

Joan watched him as he sat down, stretching out in front of the fire with a blanket. She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said. Jokingly, she added, "Besides, you've taken up the whole fire anyway."

Sherlock gave her a look that told her he was getting frustrated. "Then come join me," he said. Joan gave him a sharp, "yeah right" look. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her. "Don't be ridiculous, Watson. It's still below room temperature in here. Cold enough to make one or both of us sick. If you come sit over here, our shared body heat and the fire will keep us both warm. And healthy."

Joan did roll her eyes, sighing heavily. At this point, she knew it was useless to keep arguing with him. He wouldn't give up until she gave in, and she wouldn't be able to enjoy the peaceful snowfall with his constant arguments. With one last wistful glance at the beautiful snow outside, she made her way over to where he sat in front of the fireplace.

The sun had gone down by this time, and the candles had created a warm glow in the room, making it look like a scene from a Christmas card. Joan marveled at the beauty of the room as she went to sit down next to Sherlock, who held an edge of the blanket out to her. Joan took it, pulling the blanket over her legs as she too stretched toward the heat from the fire, maintaining a small distance between the two of them.

After a few minutes, Joan's shivering had stopped, but she still had goosebumps on her arms. Sherlock noticed. "You're still cold," he said. Joan said nothing, knowing better than to deny it. Sheelock looked at her closely. "Come a bit closer," he urged. Joan looked at him warily, not sure if that was a good idea. They almost never allowed themselves to be that close to each other, and Joan wasn't sure how many boundaries she was willing to cross.

However, Sherlock gave her another "don't be ridiculous" look that brokered no argument. Reluctantly, Joan scooted closer until their shoulders were gently brushing. His body was radiating warmth, and Joan shivered again, only partially because of the cold this time.

Seeking the comfort of his warmth, Joan unconsciously snuggled a bit closer to him until she could feel his warmth bleeding into her. As her body absorbed the heat coming from him, Joan sighed contentedly

Sherlock didn't move, unsure of how to react to their closeness. He was starting to second-guess whether asking her to come so close had been a good idea. Slightly uncomfortable with their newfound physical proximity, Sherlock sought conversation. "You mentioned that the snow reminds you of good times," he said quietly. "What good times would those be?"

Joan smiled nostalgically. "Oh, just childhood memories," she whispered. Absentmindedly, she laid her head on his shoulder as she continued, "Christmas mostly. Going to pick out our tree with my mom and step-father, snowball fights with Oren, all four of us snuggled in one bed on Christmas Eve..." she trailed off again, lost in her memories.

"Sounds wonderful," Sherlock whispered, looking down to where her head rested on his shoulder.

"It was," Joan said. After a pause, she asked, "do you have any good memories like that?"

Sherlock paused before saying, "not really. My family wasn't exactly the type to engage in traditional holiday festivities or traditions."

Joan picked her head up and met his gaze. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Nothing to be sorry for, Watson," he said, meeting her eyes. "It should come as no surprise that my childhood was far from normal."

Joan felt sorry for him nonetheless. "Still," she said sadly, "it's sad that you don't have any fond holiday memories."

Sherlock gave her a small smile. "Still plenty of time left for that," he whispered. Joan returned his smile before turning away to look back at the fire, putting her head back down on his shoulder.

They sat in contented silence for awhile, but eventually they both started drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Without warning, a log in the fire broke apart and crashed, awakening both Joan and Sherlock. To their mutual surprise, they found themselves laying on their sides, entangled in each others' arms. When Joan's eyes opened fully, her face was startling close to Sherlock's. Her arm was draped over his side, and his was curled lightly around her waste.

As Sherlock became fully conscious and realized their situation, surprise registered on his face, but he made no attempt to move away. Instead of the repulsion he usually felt when being this close to another person, Sherlock found he was enjoying this. He was actually quite comfortable holding Watson in his arms, and he was finally warm for the first time since their heat had gone out. Letting go of his natural reservations and giving in to the comfort of their shared warmth, Sherlock let his face soften into a contented smile and closed his eyes again. Unconsciously, Sherlock's hand began to drift up and down Joan' side, slowly and lazily.

Joan smiled warily, unsure of where this was going or what to do. But as his hand continued its journey up and down, up and down, she too closed her eyes and sighed contentedly. She placed her hand on his chest and leaned closer to him until her nose brushed his chin. Faced with her closeness and the sigh she had let escape, Sherlock impulsively placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

Joan's heart beat faster, and she could feel his heart doing the same under her hand. With an effort, she pulled her head back and looked into his eyes. They were half-closed in contentment, but the part that remained open was locked on to her and filled with pleasure.

"See," Joan whispered, barely audible and still so close that Sherlock could feel her breath on his chin, "I wasn't being ridiculous before. This is why we don't do stuff like this, why we don't get this close..." Her protest was half-hearted, the wariness gone and replaced by contented curiosity.

Sherlock moved closer to her, leaning in so their faces were almost touching. His only audible response was "mmm" sound he made against her lips, a sound that caused Joan to close her eyes again. Finally, Sherlock found her lips with his, kissing her softly. Joan rsponded eagerly, bringing her hand up to run it through his hair as his hand moved from her side to her back to pull her closer. Sherlock's lips parted as he deepened the kiss and Joan moaned happily against him, returning his passion in equal measure.

Eventually, Sherlock dragged his mouth off of hers, moving it down to her neck to cover it in small kisses. "You're right," he said in between kisses. He continued, his words punctuated by tiny caresses of her neck and collarbone: "we don't... do things... like this... but maybe... we should." He pulled his head back up to look at her.

She was grinning in satisfaction. "Maybe we should," she agreed before moving back in to kiss him again.

They spent the rest of the night contentedly snuggled in each other's arms in front of the fire. Sherlock thought that perhaps Watson was right; perhaps there is something magical about a snowstorm.


End file.
